


Regrets

by ferowyn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, MM/HG, Mionerva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione had never doubted that Minerva McGonagall would survive the final battle, and that she would have all the time in the world to tell her Professor how she really feels.<br/>She had also never thought that she would end up as an old woman still tortured by old regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I write stories like that? I must be pretty masochistic...

## Regrets

There had been a time when Hermione had thought she would never smile again, not honestly anyway.

It had been a time when her heart had broken, bursting into millions of tiny pieces that could be set together no more. A time when she had hated herself for everything she was and had ever done.

A time when regrets – or rather one of them – had controlled her life.

 

Because seeing Minerva McGonagall’s broken body lying among the fallen in the Great Hall had been something she just could not take.

 

Hermione Granger had always been a Gryffindor, always strong, always offering a shoulder and help to those who needed it. Always saving the world, alongside her two friends. That night, however, when they had actually saved the world – that night the strong lioness had died along with the Headmistress of Hogwarts (so what if the proud witch had held that title only for mere hours)… leaving behind a broken, lovesick, _tired_ … fool.

Hermione had never forgotten that night. Never forgotten the way Minerva had looked proud and regal even in death, even with countless curse wounds covering her body and that huge _hole_ in her chest. The look in her eyes had been one of grim satisfaction, and her grip to her wand had not eased.

Not once in her life had Hermione stopped wishing she had not seen her, not like that. Knowing… knowing would have been painful enough, _devastating_ enough.

Not once had she stopped wishing that someone had covered the body, hiding the damn circular _gap_ that had gone through the witch’s torso just like that – the size of a bludger, roughly, and the edge blackened by heat. It had kept her intestines from coming out, just a few broken ribs had been sticking into the otherwise completely clear hole. Hermione had stared directly through it and seen the floor beneath. It had taken her more than ten minutes to realize that the wound had been exactly where the animagus’ heart was supposed to be.

And not once had she stopped wishing that someone would have closed Minerva’s eyes. They had been green, but not as brilliant and piercing as Harry’s – no, it had been a flatter colour, like moss. Calming when the old witch had been smiling, and cold as a mountain lake when angry. Harry had later told Hermione that Minerva had been found inside a circle of Death Eaters, all of them having been taken out by who was obviously a genius when it came to transfigurations. It had certainly explained that dark satisfaction that had still clung to the green orbs, and her friend’s descriptions had filled the young Gryffindor with the same emotion. Still, she would have given everything had she not seen that look in her professor’s eyes.

For she had known, of course, that the older witch had died in battle, and that battles were a gruesome place to die.  
Yet, Remus and Tonks had looked peaceful in death. Fred had looked peaceful in death. Hell, even Dobby had looked peaceful when they had buried him behind Shell Cottage.

Hermione would have done anything that could have given her the chance to believe that Minerva McGonagall had been at peace with her life as well.

 

Just that she had not.

 

And neither was Hermione, not after what had happened.

The look on Harry’s face, when he had found her… he and Ron had both known, about her feelings – and her plan to finally act on them. The sympathy had never completely left his eyes, not even in all the following (peaceful) years to come, it had only shrunken along with Hermione slowly coming to terms with her loss.

Her regrets.

Regrets that had always been there, just that she had learned to control them given time.

Regrets that had been unbearable in the beginning.

 

Hermione Granger had always admired her transfiguration professor, that much was for sure, though she had only really fallen for the Deputy Headmistress when she returned to Hogwarts for her fifth year. It had not been easy to come to that realisation for a fifteen-year-old who had never lost her heart before, but her analytical mind had not given her a way out of it. She was at least bisexual, of that she had been pretty sure when she had returned from a trip with her parents, and it had not taken her long to realize that Minerva McGonagall was nothing less than perfect in all that she was – for a teenager with a love for books and studying at least.

A racing heart whenever she sat in class and a lack of appetite as soon as she had raised her head and found the older witch sitting at the head table had not exactly made Hermione’s life any easier, but she had dismissed it as a stupid teenage crush.

Only that the fluttering of her heart and stomach had not gone away. The summer after fifth year had almost been unbearable, and sixth year had made everything even worse.

When she had left with Harry and Ron to find the horcruxes it had taken all of her self-control _not_ to leave a note, after all she had not known whether she would ever see her professor again. She had carved a deal with herself, though: Should her feelings still be as strong when they came back ( _if_ they came back) she would tell Minerva, as she had started to call her in her head, about them. She would be honest and the Gryffindor she was thought to be.

The year on the run had been horror – for her as much as for her friends.

It had been some time during her turn to carry the amulet that her two friends had found out. She had had lots of nightmares, as had the two wizards, and they had agreed on telling each other – for all of them had wanted to help their friends, but keep their own dreams secret.

It had not been easy for Hermione to talk to Harry and Ron about the dead body of a certain professor again and again, but she had never been one to break promises and so she had given away her secret… love. In turn she had comforted Harry when he had seen Ginny die in his dreams, and Ron when he had lost his family over and over again.

Hermione had always been a rational girl, and thus also had always been aware that feelings like those she had for her professor often were fleeting like steam, that they tended to dwindle when you did not see each other – out of sight, out of mind as the muggles say – and told herself that she would test her own love for the time of their chase for the horcruxes.

And test it she did – along with her world-saving friend who had sworn himself that, if both of them should survive the battle, he would not wait one second to tell Ginny that he had never stopped loving her.

 

When Hermione had stepped foot into Hogwarts again after one long year and the way she felt for Minerva had not changed a bit she had clung to the necklace in her pocket and made for the Great Hall together with her friends and the other students, knowing what she was about to tell her professor making her far more nervous than the thought of Snape and the Carrows running around in the ancient castle, or the looming battle. In awe she had then watched the animagus defend her friend against Severus, and when Harry had run off she had waited for a few more seconds. Harry and Ron had known what she had been about to do, and encouraged her with a last smile.

Then they had run off and Hermione had taken a deep breath, turning around.

“Professor,” she had said, fingers clinging to the fine silver in her pocket. “Can we have a word?”

Minerva’s smile had been broader than the young witch had ever seen before, but that had changed nothing about the professor’s words.

“Of course, Hermione,” the older witch had answered. “As soon as this battle is over I’m all yours. Now, however, I’m afraid I have to live up to my promise and buy Potter time.” Then the smile had broadened even a little bit more.. “It’s also good to see you again, alive.”

Hermione had returned that last smile, ridiculously happy that the other witch had addressed her by her first name, and then dashed off towards the direction Ron had taken, for the now Headmistress had turned around, clearly occupied.

Well, there would be enough time for conversations later.

Or so Hermione had thought.

 

The young Gryffindor had been convinced that either both of them would live, or die.

The thought that maybe she would survive, but alone, had never once crossed her mind, for Minerva McGonagall surely was a witch who knew how to look after herself, and if she could not make it – how should Harry, Ron and her?

Hermione had thought like a lioness, coming out far from unscathed, but beautifully alive.

And with a bright end in mind.

 

She had returned to the Great Hall after Harry had finally defeated Voldemort, still not sure if she could dare believe it.

Her heart had been racing, still abuzz with the anxiety of the battle, her fingers clutching to the necklace once again. It had always been one of her most prized possessions: A silver, heart-shaped locket her grandmother had given her for her eighth birthday. Her grandmother, who had died only two months later.

Hermione had planned on giving the locket to Minerva, knowing that the older witch would understand. The younger one was a Gryffindor, of course she would have been courageous enough to tell her professor… but actions could speak so much louder than words, of which you choose the false ones far too often.

So the female third of the Golden Trio had marched towards the Great Hall, incredibly nervous, but with her head held high.

For a second she had stopped in the doors, taking in those assembled and bracing herself. And suddenly she had been calm, calmer than ever before when she had thought about her former professor – because what could go wrong? Even if the older witch should not reciprocate the love she felt for her… Minerva McGonagall was not a person to evade the one she could not love back. She would still be a wonderful friend.

Hermione had actually smiled a little and stepped into the hall, towards where the teachers were sitting.

And then she had seen her.

How had she managed not to when she had been here the last time, before Harry had gone into the forbidden forest?

She had never remembered what she had thought or felt in those moments – or had they been hours? – that she had spent standing in front of the… corpse, trying to understand what it meant. To understand that Minerva McGonagall had been dead, and she had been too late.

 

Filius had been the first who had seen her standing there, completely motionless, staring at the fallen Headmistress with more than utter horror on her face.

The old charms professor had conjured a blanket, covering the broken body, and knelt down to close his dear friend’s eyes.

Then he had put an arm around Hermione’s waist, being too small to put it around her shoulders, and led her away towards where his surviving colleagues had been sitting.

Pomona, who had seen them coming, had quickly conjured another blanket, and a cup, along with a teabag. Aurora had been the one to fill the cup with water and make the fluid boil. In the meantime Filius had made the young witch sit down between them, pressing the cup into her hands and putting the blanket around her shoulders.

Hermione had taken a sip of the way too hot tea, though she had not felt the pain of the scald – all that had been there in her mind had been the fact that it was Earl Grey Pomona had given her. Minerva’s favourite flavour, as she had once found out.

Then the shock had finally worn off enough that she had begun to understand.

Filius had put a small but heavy hand onto her arm, trying to calm her while she had been gasping for air, desperately trying to fill her lungs with it but not managing to. The fingers of her left hand had still been clinging to the locket, and the pointed tip of the heart had dug itself into Hermione’s already bloody palm.

It had not been enough.

“She had no one to come back to,” Filius had whispered, trying to explain. Tears had been shining brightly in his eyes. “Of course, peace is something worth fighting for, and fight she did… but it was not enough to survive for. She never forgot what the war against Grindelwald and the first war against V-V-Voldemort did to those who made it out alive… she had no reason to go through it again, not with no one waiting for her.” The new headmaster’s dark Goblin eyes had been sad and knowing. A true Ravenclaw.

Hermione had finally burst into tears then.

No matter how warm and comforting Pomona’s hug had felt, the older witch’s own hot tears dropping onto the blanket, she had still felt her heart break into thousands of tiny pieces and self-loathing boil hot through her veins.

Oh, she should have insisted on talking to Minerva before the battle! She could have just given the locket to the older women and then left, for Merlin’s sake – maybe that would have changed everything. Maybe that would have given the professor something – some _one_ – to survive for.

 

Filius and the others waited and mourned with her until Harry and Ron had come.

Ron had had his own grief to deal with, after all he had lost Fred, and Harry had obviously been deeply shaken by the fact that Remus and Tonks had not made it as well, still both of them had done their best to comfort Hermione – shocked to the core that the Headmistress they had thought almost as invincible as Dumbledore had fallen as well, and maybe also trying to distract themselves.

They had always held her together and they also did in that situation, all of them on the verge of breaking apart – and all of them trying their best to keep the others together.

Each of the three had known what war meant, that people you loved died every day, each of them had already gone through it before, still – those losses hurt almost unbearably. Despite that, or maybe just _because_ of that, they had stayed together that night. Not with the rest of the Weasleys, or even Ginny. They had mourned those this battle had taken from them in private, hidden in the Chamber of Secrets.

When they had returned the next day they had been strong enough to keep their desperation hidden from everyone else. They had been the Golden Trio, it had always been their job to be strong.

Just that Hermione had not ever been truly strong again ever since.

But she had learned to pretend.

 

That night the young Gryffindor had understood what people regretting one big mistake that had ruined their life felt like.

What she had not understood back then had been how they could live on.

 

Over the years she had learned to cope, though.

Maybe taking the necessary exams for becoming transfigurations professor at Hogwarts and also applying for the job a few years later had not been the easiest way to do so, or the least painful. Still, it had been the only way she had been able to think of back then.

The only way to be close the one woman she had never stopped loving, both emotionally and physically.

The grounds of Hogwarts were a little darker now than they had been when she had been going to school there, sadder – quieter.

The cemetery was just behind the Quidditch pitch, and it was huge. All those victims of the war – victims of both sides – whose families had wished so had been laid to rest there. All but Albus, whose grave stood where it always had, a little brighter and a little bit special. Just like he himself had always been.

Hermione had thought about burying the locket along with Minerva’s body, but in the end she had kept it.

And with the years to come the times her palm had ended up bloodied, the skin torn open by the sharp tip of a heart, had lessened along with the pain of her regrets.

 

 _After all_ , Hermione Granger thinks, laying her old head onto her wrinkled arms covered in an emerald robe, _with every passing day the moment I will see her again has come nearer._

With that thought she finally closes her eyes underneath the watchful gazes of Filius Flitwick, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore and all those headmasters before them and slowly exhales for the last time, knowing exactly where her portrait will appear in a moment.


End file.
